Return of the Ex-Wife & Pink Fuzzy Rocks

Meanwhile, beneath this seemingly harmless looking pink & fuzzy rock dwells an enemy no sword or RPG can fully exterminate — stupidity!

Stupidity is viral. It multiplies and bloats and I am convinced it will be the cause of Armageddon. Last week, I got the electric bill from the old apartment. Took the same courtesy my ex did with me and text the bill information to her. Well, apparently, according to the ex-ball and chain, we're not liable for the fee since "we had both moved out." I didn't move out, ex- roommie, remember? Well, I guess if I stayed then I have to pay it, even though, I was only there until the 6th, thanks, bitch.

What bothers me the most about this is that when she was on the phone with Yellowstone Valley Electric, she didn't bother canceling our account. Even though she thought "we" had moved out? Seem fishy to you? It was my fault for assuming she'd have the presence of mind to cancel the account. Nope. I hope to God and Gandolf that this is the last text I will ever send her.

"Look, I know you grew up under a pink fuzzy rock, but I think this is actually something we have to cancel. Will try to do it without you."

Tune in tonight — same bat-time, same bat-shit-crazy-channel!

I Really Shouldn't Be a Diplomat

"I must acknowledge, once and for all, that the purpose of diplomacy is to prolong a crisis." - Mister Spock

In high school, I would often mediate between my more neurotic friends. But when push came to verbal assaults and double-crossing adolescent boys, I lost my knack for diplomacy.

This has most recently been confirmed when i dealt with an over-zealous—stalker—young man who became way to attatched for only knowing me a matter of days. I thwarted advances and called him on his stalker-like behavior. I even familiarized myself with Castle Doctrine and House Bill 228, recently passed in Montana. The following section specifically interests me.

"Section 1. No duty to summon help or flee. Except as provided in 45-3-105, a person who is lawfully in a place or location and who is threatened with bodily injury or loss of life has no duty to retreat from a threat or summon law enforcement assistance prior to using force. The provisions of this section apply to a person offering evidence of justifiable use of force under 45-3-102, 45-3-103, or 45-3-104."

Unlike my baby-sitter homer state, Minnesota, I can actually defend myself in my dwelling structure. I don't even have to announce to any perpetrator/trespasser that they are about to be clubbed—literally—with a 5 iron.

Not retreating is something I'm pretty good at. I told off that guy a few times, despite his alleged connections and obvious mental maladies. I went on one of those anti-stalker websites and they all said to deal with them gently. I did at first, but he didn't get the point. So I went to my penchant for directness. As well as some oddly tactful excuses for not having contact. I should not be a diplomat

Even after being abnormally civil, despite my directness, the guy deleted AND blocked me on facebook. Now, this was either to 1. get my attention, congrats you did. Or 2. I'm about to be whacked. Or 3. it was too emotional for him to still be friends after my rejection, which wasn't really rejection because we didn't even know each other.

I've been a little bit on edge—ever vigilant, never fearful.

Where Do I Keep Finding These People?

Like, seriously, barring entrance to Walmart or Targhetto on Lake St. I have never before felt such a need for a loaded Glock, gat or stockpile of RPGs. And in leu of a firearm, I sleep with a 5 iron by my bed.

Why do I attract crazy people?

1. I'm blonde and thus easier to see.
2. I'm warm and affirming, sometimes.
3. I look innocent enough.
4. The shoes. (Thanks Will).
5. Intelligent enough that crazy people find me engaging. (Thanks Will).

No, this is just, nuts. Of course, when I date "nice, normal" boys, I get bored. I have a problem. I mean, really, I'm already paranoid. Just today i went to the sex offender registry to plan a safe walking route around campus.

P.S. I wonder how many people just watched me pull my clubs from my trunk, analyze, then select the 5, swing over my shoulder and trot back to my room. Shrug.

"Grangefruit"

Hi, my name is Naomi, I'm an English Major and I have also discovered Grangefruit. Please consider my candidacy for Hardin, MT police chief. Just kidding. But just over 30 minutes ago, I did peel, what I thought was an orange, and got a grapefruit. As the sojourn into this new citrus territory I have named my discovery, "Grangefruit," pronounced, "Gr-ah-ngefruit."



Could this cure cancer? Liberalism? Socialism? Piracy? Earth-quakes? Probably not, but there's a chance. If there's one thing I learned from statistics. Blank stare. Twitch.

(How To) De-compartmentalize Your Emotions

"And the strain of the primitive remained alive and active. Faithfulness and devotion, things born of fire and roof were his, yet he retained his wildness and wiliness. And from the depths of the forest, a call still sounded." – Jack London, Call of the Wild

Even if it’s been weeks or months since you neatly tucked away neuroticism in the crisper drawer, and separated vengeance, pain and rage with Tupperwares—must keep those apart for sure—and heaped grief and un-requited love into separate zip-lock bags, and betrayal, well, that’s still in the pot, in the back of the figurative fridge, even after all of that mental tidying, there remains an innate need to re-open and taste the seeping, moldy, noxious humors of your own emotional leftovers. Great, you’re thinking, how the hell do I do that?

I recommend howling. No, seriously. I’ve been researching wolves lately, well wolves and crows—crows have and always will follow me (insert maniacal laugh), which is another story for another blog. But I have always been fascinated by wolves, and, also have grown increasingly envious. I wish I could go somewhere and howl. Even if wolves rarely tilt-back and screech for emotional reasons, the necessity to howl for communication remains.

How liberating would it be just to climb a rock and scream at the sky—the world? To purge emotion through sound and not temporary tidying is something I need to do—we all probably do, either that or we’ll die young of bowel disorders.

My neighbors either acquired a trampoline or had an orgy last night, or both. Probably both. So in revolt to their constant partying and wee-hour stereo blasting—I swear if I hear Party in the USA one more time—I picked up my cello. We all know I play loudly, but how loudly? Well, believe it or not (I recommend believing it) but I actually managed to drown out the thump-thumpery and giggling. But once I figured out I could actually win, in a way, (winning, will be blasting Carmina Burana, Spice Girls, and every Boy Band song EVER—on repeat—during finals week, and no, I have yet to open and deal with the vengeance Tupperware) I couldn’t stop.

Like howling, cello-ing is a necessity for me. Cello playing is my howling. I howled for hours. I didn’t think I still had it in me, but I did. The more I played the better I sounded, and felt, which in turn caused me to play more. I felt such peace, which lasted until 4 am when the stereo blasting returned to full volume. Then I took Tylenol PM and passed out. Like I said, Carmina Burana.

Hey, I’m not afraid of confrontation. So why not just confront the thirty or so drunken football players and cheerleaders and kindly ask them to quiet down? Hmm? Probably because it would go something like this:

0200 Fictional Random Party Night, Neighbor's Room

“Knock-knock.”
“BOOM-BOOM.”
“Knock-knock-knock-KNOCK!”
“Thump-boom-thump-boom-yea Smitty!”
“KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!”
“Hold on, yea, it’s that bitchy blonde chick who never talks to us and just goes from class to her room yea the one that walks with her ass out.”
“Hello?”
“Hi. I live next door and my eardrums are bleeding. Could you please turn down your, um, ‘music’?”
“Uh, sure. Want to play some pong?”
“Wha-no. Don’t you people think I’m a bitch or something?’
“Yeah, but you’re also hot.”
“I’ve always appreciated the Greek take on Theatre; they keep the violence off stage.”

Exit Naomi.

Yea, something like that. Maybe I can take out the moldy emotions and use them as ordinance? Mixed metaphor? Whatever. Back to the question at hand; how does one de-compartmentalize emotions? Howling, check. Now what? Howling is a start, but I have a feeling that tears will soon be a part of this process as well as ultimately opening the creepy pot of betrayal in the dark recesses of the fridge. Lord only knows what lifting that lid will unleash. Like Vulcans purging all emotion, de-compartmentalizing offers a luxury. But, unlike Vulcans, this is temporary for humans.

I’ll just admit it now, I’m afraid of the fridge. I’m afraid of what I’ll find. I don’t know if I have the strength to deal with that mess when simply maintaining this compartmentalization has exhausted me. And if admitting that the events of the last months have significantly affected me and still bother me by more than simple petulance, means I am weak or neurotic, then I accept that. At least I’m man enough to admit I have issues. I bear my weaknesses, not with pride, but with candles of hope.

I can't end this like that, I'm just not feeling it. I also need to point out that you never get a 12-step plan from me when I post "how to" blogs. That's because despite my judging preference, I usually skip steps 2-9 anyway. Which is going to make this even more interesting.